


When You Least Expect It

by teenage_hustler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 15:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14596254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenage_hustler/pseuds/teenage_hustler
Summary: For five years Hermione has had Veela blood running through her veins. Being a Veela has its perks, but Hermione soon discovers that it has some notably uncomfortable consequences as well.This was originally written for the 2010 Dramione Duet exchange on Livejournal. It's probably one of the sexier fics I've written. I don't often write sex scenes involving exceptionally beautiful people, but veela!Hermione and sexbomb!Draco kind of lend themselves to it.





	When You Least Expect It

~*~

Hermione was frustrated.

She’d been frustrated before, of course. Frustration, indeed, was all she felt for the majority of her waking hours, and a fair bit while sleeping too. But seeing how she was presently in a lavishly decorated ballroom, a glass of champagne in her hand, about to join her friends for a gourmet dinner before a night of dancing and frivolity, it was reasonable to expect that she would not be frustrated right now.

But she was, and the reasons for her frustration started as long as five years ago…

~*~

It was two weeks after the end of the war. Hermione, having just returned from collecting her parents from Australia, was at the Burrow with the other Weasley children, relative spouses, and Harry. Everybody had just enjoyed a fantastic lunch and was petering off to enjoy their afternoon.

Hermione went to the kitchen, where she unearthed half a jug of pumpkin juice and poured herself a glass. As she drank it she looked out the window, where Harry, Ron, George and Ginny were playing two-a-side Quidditch. Watching Ron, she felt butterflies erupting in her stomach, as they always did when she allowed herself a proper look at him. Their relationship was young and fresh, and every time he touched her she shivered with excitement and anticipation. She supposed her level of excitement came down to how inexperienced she was in all of this relationship stuff, but she was enjoying it for all it was worth.

The sound of the kitchen door flying open and crashing against the adjacent wall made Hermione jump, splashing the remains of her glass down her front. She gasped at the cold, but before she could pull out her wand and apply a cleaning charm a flurry of excitement at the door distracted her.

“Love, could you please just let me go in there too, so we can talk about this?” Hermione recognised Bill’s voice, but couldn’t see him. All she could see was the sheet of super-fine blonde hair cascading down the back that was facing her. Fleur’s, obviously. 

“No, Bill. Not right now. I know I am being selfish, and I am sorry. But I need _un moment_ to calm down and think for myself. This is okay?”

A sigh, then, “Yes, all right love. Come to me when you’ve, er, calmed down, all right?”

“Of course I shall. Thank you darling.” The blonde head moved, and Hermione caught a glimpse of Bill’s half-mangled face as Fleur placed a kiss on his cheek. He moved away and Fleur turned around, gasping in surprise when she saw Hermione there.

“Oh! Hermione! I am sorry. I did not think that anybody would be in here.”

“It’s no problem,” Hermione assured her. “I’m sorry if I overheard something private.”

“No, no. It is fine.” Fleur glided over to Hermione’s side, placing her delicate hands on the side of the counter, leaning forward and closing her long-lashed eyes. For a few moments neither woman said anything, but Hermione observed that Fleur was breathing heavily, and that a slightest sheen of sweat graced her flawless face. 

When Fleur opened her eyes again, she looked over at Hermione and offered what seemed to be a strained smile. “Can I tell you something, Hermione? Something about being a Veela?”

“Um, all right,” Hermione answered. As eager as Hermione tended to be to learn new things, the physiology of Veela had never intrigued her. She knew they had a certain magical something that had an effect similar to that of an aphrodisiac on Veela and humans of the opposite gender, and that they turned bird-like and terrifying when they were angry, but other than that Veela were a mystery, and that suited Hermione well enough.  
But Fleur clearly wanted to get something off her chest, and Hermione could hardly deny Fleur that opportunity simply because she was not interested in the subject matter. She poised herself to listen attentively.

“Veela can be temperamental creatures,” Fleur said. “We get angry, and irritated, and sad, very easy. We are normally happy beings, but if something exists that can make us angry, we get angry.”

“Uh-huh,” Hermione said, nodding.

“We are also very picky,” Fleur continued. “We are picky with everything. With food, with places to sit, with houses, and especially,” Fleur leaned in closer to Hermione, all the better to whisper the next two words to her, “with partners.”

“I see,” Hermione whispered back, although she didn’t see. Where was Fleur going with this?

“At first, with Bill, everything is perfect. We have not a lot in common, but we work well together. And the biggest thing is I connect with him, as a Veela. He is able to satisfy me … sexually—” Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair. She did not wish to be privy to the sex life of two people who were effectively becoming like siblings to her “—which is a rare thing for a Veela to find. So we are good together, at first.”

“’At first’?” Hermione repeated, still sporting one of the reddest faces in all the land. “What’s different between now and ‘at first’?”

“When that monster defaced him, something happened,” Fleur said, her tone now cold. “He’s still Bill, but his body chemistry, it changed. Now, when he makes love with me—“ Hermione’s face re-reddened “—although he is maybe better at it now than he was before, it is not enough for me. So I am never satisfied, and always I am angry at everybody because of this.”

“I, er… right,” Hermione said, shuffling awkwardly. “Um, there are other ways of, er, achieving satisfaction. You know, without a partner—“

“Not for Veela,” Fleur interrupted her. “I have always marvelled how easy it is for humans to orgasm. Surely there is no need for a partner at all, yes?”

“Er, maybe,” Hermione agreed, looking down. She hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since her mother had had ‘the talk’ with her when she was thirteen and just starting to fancy Ron.

“Veela cannot do this,” Fleur explained. “We need a partner to get ourselves off, and it has to be somebody that we connect with. I connected with Bill, at first. But now I don’t. Normally when you find your partner is not matching, you find somebody else. But I cannot do this.”

“Why not?” Hermione asked, without thinking.

Fleur’s frowned, looking more confused than anything else. “Because I love him. Why else?”

Nodding quickly, Hermione said “Of course. Sorry,” and turned away from the older witch. Hermione did not really know what she could say or do to help Fleur. This really was not her area of expertise. Fleur would have been much better off telling Ginny this story. Ginny knew a suspiciously large amount about love and sex for somebody who, Hermione was relatively sure, was still a virgin. But Hermione wondered whether this really was a matter of incredible urgency. It seemed petty, really, to complain about not getting what you want in bed, and despite how Fleur often seemed on the outside, she wasn’t a petty person. Was this issue really that important in the grand scheme of things?

Looking back at Fleur, Hermione could see her now regarding the bushy-haired witch with understanding. 

“You think I am being silly, yes?” she asked.

“Er…” Hermione blushed yet again. Sometimes she forgot that Fleur was intelligent. An unfair stereotype brought on by years of watching pretty blonde idiots at Hogwarts. She would have to work on that. 

“I can see why you think it is silly,” Fleur said. “I would normally say it is silly too. But this is a horrible thing. I have been like this for a year, and it feels like I am crazy.”

Hermione nodded seriously. She was still not entirely convinced of Fleur’s pain (after all, it seemed so _silly_ , as Fleur put it). However, she decided to put her scepticism aside for now and try instead to figure out a way to help.

“Is there something that can be done?” she asked Fleur. “Something that can rid you of this feeling?”

After thinking for a moment, Fleur shook her head. “There is nothing. While I am Veela, and while I love Bill, I am stuck like this. My only hope is to learn to calm myself down, with meditation and these such things. It can work, but not for long. It is difficult.”

“Hmm.” Hermione thought about what Fleur had just said. _While I am Veela, and while I love Bill…_ There was no chance of her falling out of love with Bill, as far as Hermione could tell. They were besotted with each other. Even when they argued you could see the affection there. As Fleur herself had said, they connected. As for Fleur being Veela…

“Fleur,” Hermione said, and Fleur looked over at her, blue eyes piercing. “You aren’t a full Veela, are you? Is it possible for you to somehow hide your Veela origins, and make your human blood come through? Maybe magically?”

Fleur considered the thought. “I cannot simply switch from Veela to human,” she said. “Veela genes are dominant, so even if you are technically only a quarter Veela, like me, you are full Veela in actuality.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking away.

“But,” Fleur continued, and Hermione looked up again, “I have heard of a charm. It is a complex charm, so you need to have professionals perform it. But it has had good results.”

“What does it do?”

“Veela and humans are very similar, genetically,” Fleur explained. “The only difference is in some of our inner body chemistry. Veela produce some different chemicals, and it is this that causes differences between Veela and human wizards. These Veela chemicals are made from a small part of our brains. Humans have a counterpart part of the brain. Charm-masters in Bulgaria have worked out how to switch these parts of the brain between a Veela and a human. It takes a few days for the old chemicals in the body to flush out and the new ones to start reproducing, but after these few days the human is a Veela, and the Veela is a human.”

Hermione was impressed. This was an incredible-sounding charm. And, it seemed, the obvious solution to Fleur’s problem. “That’s it then! You should arrange to get it done as soon as you can!”

“Yes,” Fleur agreed. “Yes! I definitely should! I shall owl them right now!” Face starting to light up, she made to exit the kitchen, but she’d barely taken two steps when she stopped and turned back to Hermione, her expression back to sombre.

“This will not work,” Fleur said. “There has to be a human who will want to become a Veela and switch with me. It has to be a switch, or else the charm does not work.”

“A human to switch with you?” Hermione asked. Without pausing to think about it, she fixed her eyes on Fleur’s and said “Well, it’s simple then. I’ll do it.”

Fleur’s eyes widened in surprise. “You?” she asked. “You will become a Veela, for me?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, nodding her said. A large part of her mind was asking her what the hell she was doing. This was not a trivial thing to do. In doing this she would be altering the way her body works. She’d be becoming a being that she didn’t know anything about. Surely to decide so rashly to undergo a transformation like this was total madness?

And yet, Hermione knew she wanted to do it. Maybe she desperately wanted to help Fleur in any way she could. Or maybe she had actually fallen for the fairy-tale idea of being astoundingly beautiful like Veela were. Or perhaps she was merely curious. Whatever the reason, she knew she wanted to do this, and joined Fleur in sending her owl and making the arrangements.

The two young witches travelled to Bulgaria some weeks later, where they admitted themselves to the Bulgarian version of St Mungo’s and were taken to a two-person room with adjoining beds. The procedure was due to be carried out the next morning. As Hermione settled down for sleep, she heard Fleur twisting and turning next to her.

“Can’t sleep?” she whispered. 

“It is this bed,” Fleur answered, rolling onto her side and facing Hermione. “It feels like rocks on my back.”

“It’s not that bad,” Hermione said. “I’ve been in worse.”

“As have I,” Fleur assured her. “But I tell you before, Veela are picky. When something is comfortable, it is very comfortable. But before then, everything hurts.”

Hermione chose not to reply. Again she wondered if she was doing something completely stupid. She most probably was, but still she wasn’t deterred. Some unexplainable part of her wanted this, and she was going to see it through.

The next morning both witches were put into a dreamless sleep while a team of four Bulgarian Charm-masters performed the intricate spell. The procedure took just shy of three hours. Afterwards, when they were brought back into consciousness, Hermione had one of the worst headaches she’d sported before, ever, in her life. The pain in her head was so intense that after a few minutes she was vomiting violently into the bowl that had been placed beside her bed for just this occasion. To her left, Fleur was doing the same thing as her.

“I feel like I have been stepped on,” Fleur said, once she’d stopped wretching. 

Hermione chuckled weakly and looked over at her. She noticed that Fleur’s hair, while still long and blonde, had lost some of that amazing shine it had once had. Her eyes, too, were not as shiny as before. Still a beautiful blue, though. 

“Ahh, yes,” Fleur said when she looked at Hermione. “You are changing already.” Fleur pointed to a mirror on the table beside their beds. “Take a look.”

Hermione took the mirror, pointed it at her face, and gasped. She still looked like her, but it was like the nice parts had been enhanced, and the not-so-nice bits had been diminished. Her hair was much less bushy than before, and her eyes were a shade or two darker. Her skin was darker as well, like she’d spent a day in the sun, and the few spots she’d had on her right cheek before had vanished completely. 

“I’m beautiful,” Hermione whispered. It was like a dream. She felt like a moron for being as happy as she was looking at herself, but she couldn’t help it. 

“You were always beautiful,” Fleur said, smiling tiredly at her.

Their appearances continued to change over the next few days, as their blinding headaches diminished and their systems got used to their respective new chemistry. Fleur’s eyes dulled to a pale grey colour. Her hair was now a sandy blonde, falling to halfway down her back, and was kinked and crinkled in a way that looked imperfectly human. A few freckles graced the bridge of her nose, her cheeks lost their previously rosy hue, and now when she moved she did it without the effortless grace of a dancer. She tripped over at one point as she crossed the room, and as Hermione rushed over to ask if she was all right, she laughed and said something about needing to get used to human feet. She now slept soundly, and didn’t complain once about her bed being uncomfortable. Hermione thought that Fleur was still beautiful, but it was a different kind of beauty – it was reachable, attainable. She didn’t look like an ethereal being anymore. And Fleur, for one, liked how she looked.

“I was dreading how I would look,” she admitted, studying herself in the mirror. “I was scared I would have a hunchback, or a double-chin, or some other such thing. But I like this. It is nice.”

Hermione, by contrast, blossomed. Her hair, previously a hybrid of brown and dirty blonde, had darkened to a rich, deep chocolate. Her hair now fell most of the way down her back in thick ringlets, all shiny and delicious-looking enough to eat. Her face was free of moles and freckles now, and was a light tan colour that suited her hair perfectly. Her eye-colour was similar to her hair-colour, and her eyes themselves had somehow become bigger. Her neck had elongated a fraction, her posture had improved. Her breasts, she swore, had become twice the size they were. The puppy-fat she had once carried around her hips was completely gone, and her legs, it seemed, stretched on forever. She had never considered herself vain, but she found herself spending hours looking at herself in the mirror, hardly daring to believe that she looked as beautiful as she now did. 

The day before they left, Hermione and Fleur, now the same height when Fleur was previously six inches taller, sat side-by-side with the mirror in their hands, Hermione squirming every now and then. Fleur was right, she realised. These beds were murderously uncomfortable.

“I will miss my shimmery hair,” Fleur confessed.

“There are really good shampoos and conditioners around, you know,” Hermione said, taking a strand between her slender fingers and considering it. “This hair will be much more manageable than my old hair was.”

Fleur laughed. “I could have the human equivalent of a woolly mammoth’s fur on my head and it would still be more manageable than your old hair.”

Hermione scowled. Or she tried to, but her new face wasn’t capable of portraying such ugly facial expressions. “I’ll miss my freckles,” she said in an effort to change the subject.

“I do not blame you for that,” Fleur said, touching the bridge of her nose. “There is something about them, no?”

“Exactly,” Hermione agreed. “But, one can’t have everything.”

Hermione and Fleur returned home to the warm, welcome arms of the Weasley family and Harry. Bill saw Fleur and grinned. “You look so cute, love,” he said.

“You are not disappointed?” Fleur asked.

“Not at all.” Bill took her face in his and kissed her, and Fleur hastily grabbed his arm tight in hers and Apparated them both away.

Hermione regarded the space where they had been standing in surprise for a moment, then something clicked and she grinned. “Of course,” she said to herself. “We won’t be expecting them back for another hour or so.”

Most of the Weasleys found Hermione’s transformation as unbelievable as she did. Ginny said straight away that she was simply stunning, and the older brothers agreed before shuffling quickly away, their hands clamped over their groins. Harry told her he was looking forward to not needing to sneeze from her hair every time she hugged him, and Hermione stuck her tongue out. Ron said nothing, but judging by his hand occasionally reaching out to play with her hair, or grazing her arm, or her cheek, he was mesmerised. 

When they got home Ron wasted no time in pulling her into the bedroom. Hermione was glad he was eager, because she was too. Surprisingly so. She pulled him toward her and kissed him. As they kissed Hermione felt a stirring in her groin, as intense and ferocious as a well-aimed _Stupefy_. She urgently deepened the kiss, tugging at Ron’s shirt. Ron got the message, and soon they were naked, on the bed (uncomfortable, Hermione noticed), and he was thrusting into her.

“Oh Merlin, Hermione,” Ron huffed, his rhythm unrelenting. “You’re amazing. You’re so amazing. I love you so much… oh yes… right there, right there…”

Hermione huffed along with him, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him into his next orgasm. He soon came with a loud yelp and collapsed on her.

“Oh, wow,” Ron said, is chest still heaving. “That was absolutely amazing. It’s never been that good.”

“Mmm,” Hermione said, distracted. Her own insides were still seething with unsatisfied desire. Without thinking about it, her hand snaked its way into her folds and started massaging her clit with reckless abandon. She arched her back, and Ron saw what she was doing.

“Hermione?” he asked, curious. “What happened? Didn’t you…”

Hermione shook her head. “Please, help me.”

Ron’s regarded her with surprise. And Hermione could imagine why. They hadn’t been sexually active for very long, but even so, she’d never sounded so desperate. She’d never felt so desperate either. 

So Ron tried to help her. With an almost embarrassingly small amount of stimulation he was hard again, and this time he fucked her slowly, using one hand to stimulate her clit at the same time as per her instructions. She pulled his face towards her for fiery kisses, she clawed at his back, she made them switch positions so she was now impaling herself with him. They kept going until Ron was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. But to no avail. Try what they might, Hermione didn’t come that night. 

She didn’t sleep either.

The next morning at breakfast Ron came in with the stupidest smile Hermione had ever seen on his face. Hermione smiled despite herself. She was jumpy, frustrated and tired. And she’d come to a horrible, horrible realisation.

“Ron,” Hermione said, “This … what we have … _us_ … it’s not going to happen.”

Ron, who had been shovelling down cereal, froze with his spoon suspended halfway toward his mouth. He dropped the spoon with a loud _clang!_ and stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

Hermione sighed, closing her eyes and taking a few deep breaths. _It’s not his fault_ , she reminded herself. _He really tried_. “Fleur told me that Veela are very picky when it comes to choosing partners. We’re a bit more, er, _animalistic_ , than humans. Veela develop a connection with certain humans, and it’s only with those humans that they’re able to be satisfied … sexually.”

Ron nodded. He was no idiot; he understood what she was saying. He certainly didn’t seem pleased about it, though.

“I thought,” Hermione said, bowing her head for a moment, “I thought that you and I would surely be all right. I thought we already had that connection. But you tried so hard last night. You were brilliant, you really were. I should have, well, you know…”

“Orgasmed?” Ron filled in with a wry smile.

“Yeah, that. That should have happened several times over. It would have done when I was human. But it’s not happening now. So it’s not meant to be. I’m sorry, Ron.”

Ron sighed, then beckoned her over. She came without question, taking a seat next to him.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, taking her face in his hands again. “It’s not your fault. You were doing Fleur a favour, and I know how bad it was getting between her and Bill. I think you’re amazing for doing this.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, taking one of his hands off her face and interlacing it between her fingers. “I’ll always love you.”

“I know you will,” Ron nodded. “Just not in that way anymore, hey?”

Hermione shook her head. “I guess not.”

Soon after that morning Hermione moved out of the flat she had been sharing with Ron. Inspired by the staff who had looked after her in Bulgaria, she decided to train to become a Healer at St Mungo’s. She spent long days running from corridor to painfully long corridor in purple scrubs with the infamous St Mungo’s logo sewn onto the front pocket, tending to patients with a whole manner of bizarre ailments, leaving each and every one of them smiling dazedly and thanking their lucky stars that in what could quite possibly their final hours on Earth they’d been looked after by such a beautiful intern. Despite the bossy, bookwormish tendencies that becoming Veela had not squashed out of her, her patients, fellow staff members, teachers and supervisors all absolutely loved her, through no effort of her own. It was strange, going from being the nerdy unpopular girl who struggled to keep any friends she may have, to being effortlessly popular with everybody. But Hermione could hardly complain about being liked, could she?

She’d had a great many sexual encounters over those next few years as well. She would never bed them more than once, even though the vast majority would have liked to take their encounter further. She was hardly proud of her conquests, and she knew that if she was still human she would be known as the St Mungo’s Slut, but the urge to try and find satisfaction was too strong to resist sometimes. And yet, nobody was able to satisfy her, try as many of them might. She apologised to Fleur profusely, many times, for regarding her with scorn when she had told her about how horribly frustrating being constantly on edge is. Hermione likened it to being absolutely starving and finally eating a meal, only to discover that the meal is nowhere near enough to fill you up. That was what Hermione had felt, almost constantly, for five straight years now.

And it was why she felt frustrated this particular evening.

~*~

This elaborate dinner had been organised by the higher-ups at St Mungo’s, celebrating 500 years of being Britain’s best Wizarding hospital. Hermione had invited Harry, Ron and Ginny to the event, and after some scanning of the guests in the room that night, she discovered the three of them smiling and waving at her. She approached the table, her long brown curls bouncing lightly behind her, and took a seat, failing to hide her look of dissatisfaction as she sat down. The chair was like sitting on a cobblestone road that hadn’t been swept in a good few months.

Harry noticed her annoyance and gave her a grin. “Perhaps you’d prefer standing?” he suggested, before requesting lamb chops to his plate.

“It’s not funny,’ she scowled. “The only chair I’ve found that is truly comfortable is my armchair at home.”

“Well then surely after this you can use it to relax your tired buttocks, hey?” Ron suggested, giving her a pat on the back before digging enthusiastically into his chicken cordon bleu. 

“Mmm.” Hermione opened her menu and took a sweeping glance at the dishes on order. It wasn’t going to matter what she ordered, since it was all going to taste like bland ash to her. To date, the only foods that Hermione found she enjoyed now were a few choice Weasley dishes, and, unsurprisingly, Fleur’s cooking. The two women had become almost inseparable friends now, acting like each others’ mentors as they became accustomed to life as a different species. She had invited Fleur to tonight’s event, but Fleur had declined, saying that Bill was returning from a 3-week conference and she was as horny as the most depraved of rabbits, not to put too fine a point on it. Hermione, who was so used to thinking about sexual needs now that talk about it had come to not phase her in the slightest, wished her good luck and left Shell Cottage quietly seething at how lucky Fleur was to be human now.

After dinner had been consumed the band started playing a well-known jazz number. Ginny and Harry looked at each other excitedly before excusing themselves from the table to dance, leaving Ron and Hermione to engage in idle chatter.

“We really should have come together, you know,” Ron said to her. “That way neither of us looks like a pathetic single loser.”

Hermione raised her impeccable eyebrows. “True. But you’re still looking for a girlfriend, and if you came with me then any potential partners would think that you are off-limits, wouldn’t they?”

“Hardly,” Ron scoffed. “You’re easily expendable.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and then noticed a woman with a shawl covering half of her face approaching the table. “All right, Lavender?”

“Hi Ron, Hermione,” Lavender greeted them, half of her smile visible despite the shawl. Being mawled by an unchanged werewolf indeed changed people, and in Lavender’s case she’d gone from being a giggly and somewhat pathetic teenager to an intelligent, independent, strong woman. Nevertheless, she had now become infamous for the shawl and only those closest to her got to see her facial scars.

“Ron,” Lavender now asked, regarding him with a shyness Hermione hadn’t seen since Hogwarts days. “Would you like to dance with me?”

“Would I… er…” Ron faltered, glancing at Hermione. 

“He’d be happy to, Lavender,” Hermione answered for him, elbowing Ron out of his chair.

“You sure about this?” Ron whispered to her.

“Of course I am,” Hermione whispered back. “It’s been five years since you’ve been with someone, and you’re a good person who deserves happiness. Go. Have fun. And think of me while you’re ramming into her from behind.”

Ron paled. “I miss when you were shy about that stuff sometimes, you know.”

“I’m sure.” Hermione watched Ron and Lavender walk away and sighed. She probably shouldn’t have made that uncouth comment, because the thought of being rammed into from behind sent a rush of heat right down to her core. Had she been able to, she would have rushed to the bathroom and quickly relieved herself by medium of diddling fingers. As it was, she had to settle for crossing her legs and directing her attention towards the couples on the dance floor.

“Enjoying yourself, Granger?” came a cool voice.

Hermione didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Draco Malfoy. She knew why he was here – his department at the Ministry handled financing for the hospital, so it was to be expected that he, and the other two or so people of the 50+ members of the department who could still dance without dislodging a hip, would be there. She’d had a few run-ins with him since the end of Hogwarts days, when he’d been sent to St Mungo’s to survey the premises and find out how money should be directed within the hospital. He had been quite nice to her whenever they had exchanged pleasantries, but she still felt he was far too cocky for his own good. She strongly doubted that Merlin himself was as amazing as Draco seemed to believe he himself was.

“I’m having the time of my life. Can’t you tell?” she answered him.

Draco laughed, sitting down in the seat Ron had previously occupied. 

“Does my boredom amuse you?” Hermione asked.

“Boredom?” Draco asked. “Who said anything about boredom? You know my line of work; I know what boredom is—“ Hermione smiled, despite herself “—so I know you’re not bored. But I have to say Granger, I’ve never seen a person look so pissed off before. If I may speak plainly, you look like you’re sorely in need of a good shag.”

Hermione snorted, resting her head in her cupped hands. “Yes, well,” she said. “If such a thing was attainable, let’s just say I wouldn’t be here talking to you right now.”

“’ Attainable’?” Malfoy repeated, looking at her as though she was a bizarre anomaly. “I must be missing something, because I’m not exaggerating here, Granger, when I say that every single man in this room, and probably a fair few of the women, would be willing to give it to you good and proper, and thank you for the opportunity.”

“Oh, I know,” Hermione assured him. “And many of the men here have had their piece of this.” She slapped herself on the arse; a gesture that, if she wasn’t mistaken, caused Draco to tighten his grip on the table. _Typical_ , she thought. _Even the great Draco Malfoy reacts to my Veela charms_. “But there’s almost no point in bothering. Satisfying a Veela is a skill that very few people possess.”

“I’m intrigued,” Malfoy said. “What does a person need to possess in order to satisfy a Veela? Beauty that equals yours?”

Hermione’s responding laugh was bitter. “Malfoy, please,” she huffed. “We’re neither of us idiots. There are a lot of beautiful people out there, but none of them even compare to me. That’s just fact.”

“True,” Draco agreed. “So what is it then?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hermione shrugged. “I’ve not met such a person yet. But according to Fleur they will appear, generally when I least expect it. And when they do appear I’ll know that it’s them.”

“Hmm.” Draco, seemingly tired of the conversation already, stood up. Hermione thought he was about to leave and turned away from him, only to be surprised when he extended his hand out to her.

“Huh?” she said; a sound that didn’t suit her plump Veela mouth.

“I’d have thought the invitation was obvious,” Draco said, smirking. “Would you like to dance?”

Hermione shrugged. “I suppose. Nothing else to do.” She placed her hand in his…

…and gasped. As soon as their skin touched Hermione felt a jolt of electricity, as forceful as one might expect in a thunderstorm, shoot from the point of contact, straight to the pit of her stomach, and then lower. She looked sharply over at her blonde companion, whose face was a picture of innocence.

He pulled her to the dance floor and before long she found herself encased in his arms. A slower, waltz-y song started, and immediately he was sweeping her along the floor with a grace to rival her own. He smelled amazing – the kind of woody pine smell that came from expensive cologne. The points where their skin touched continued sending electricity through her, down to the most sacred parts of her anatomy. She could feel herself getting excited, and although it did not take much at all for her to become excited these days, she had a good feeling about this. Perhaps her Veela senses were kicking in. Perhaps she was finally going to find satisfaction. 

The dance changed to a sultry rumba, and Draco pulled her hips to him with a forcefulness that would have made Hermione blush in her human days, but now made her grin eagerly. Acting on autopilot she lifted up one long, tanned leg, feeling the violet material of her dress fall away as Draco took hold of her leg and hoisted it onto his hip. He dragged her several steps along the dance floor, her other leg poised and trailing behind. She was sure that anybody watching would think that what they were seeing was raw passion itself. But, of course, that is what the Rumba is supposed to portray.

He lifted her leg off his hip, took her hands and twirled her around, so now her back was against his chest, their interlocked hands pressing down her sides.

“You’re beautiful, you know,” he whispered in her ear.

“Veela, Malfoy,” Hermione reminded him, her body moving along with his.

“No,” Draco shook his head. “You were beautiful when you were human, too.”

“When I was human?” Hermione looked up at him as best she could. “But you hated me back then.”

“Did I?” Draco questioned. Their joined hands were now running down her exposed thigh. The sensation was heart-stopping. “Or was I envious of your brains and determination? Of your courage, and the good heart that drove you to sacrifice being human, and the relative ease it takes to be human, for a friend? Was I wishing, while we were in Hogwarts, that I could be you? And then did it shift, into me wishing that I could be _with_ you?”

He turned her back around, so now they were facing each other, their mouths so close that, were this not a rumba, people would certainly get ideas.

“I don’t know,” Hermione breathed. “You tell me.”

And then suddenly his lips were on hers, kissing her with the kind of tenderness that Hermione would not have believed possible in a Malfoy.

As soon as their lips met another shock of electricity went straight through her body. Only this time the electricity exploded in her stomach like fireworks, and Hermione knew then, without a doubt, that this was it. Malfoy had been who she was waiting for.

And so she kissed him back, but tenderness was the last thing on her mind. It had been five long, frustrating years, and she wanted, in plain terms, to be well and truly fucked. She utterly devoured his mouth with hers, and before Draco knew it she had pushed him against one elaborately decorated wall of the ballroom, the better to push and pull at him without fear of knocking him over.

Before long, however, Draco was pushing her away.

“Stop, stop,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“No,” Hermione answered, trying to reach for him again. Draco held a shaking hand up to stop her.

“Granger, think about this. We’re in a ballroom. Both of our bosses are here, as well as your friends and co-workers. This is unprofessional behaviour.” 

“I don’t care,” Hermione answered. And she didn’t. More to the point, what was he doing, trying to stop this? Didn’t he get that her insides were on fire and needed to be put out? She reached for him again, but still he resisted.

“You’ll care tomorrow, trust me.” He glanced to the side and, inspiration clearly coming to him, took her hand and half-pulled, half-dragged her to a door along the wall. He opened it, they entered, and he whipped out his wand to whisper a locking charm. A moment’s thought, and he added an imperturbable charm as well. Tucking his wand away, he noticed that the room was dark, dusty, and surprisingly spacious. He guessed that it was a storage room for chairs, or something similar.

“Nice place,” he said into the darkness.

“Whatever,” Hermione answered, and then she was kissing him again. She slammed him against the wall so hard that he saw stars for a moment. Then her hand struggling with his belt brought him sharply back to attention. 

With skill that five years of frantic one-night stands had granted her, she pulled down his trousers and pants with astonishing speed. Draco, getting her urgency, reached under the skirt of her dress and pulled down her knickers, which he could feel were lacy. He hopped out of his trousers and turned her around so she was against the wall, lifting up her skirt and hoisting that same gorgeously smooth, long leg over his hip. He slid his hand between them and stroked her sex, feeling the wealth of wetness already present there.

“Draco,” Hermione panted, and he registered the use of his first name. “Don’t worry about preparing me or anything. I’m more than ready. Just fuck me. Please.”

“As the lady wishes,” he replied. He slid his fingers higher, finding her tiny nub of pleasure and pressing it as he guided himself into her. The sound that came out of Hermione’s mouth as he filled her was the sort that Draco could see himself magically recording and playing back over and over whenever the urge struck to get himself off.

Her hands tightened around his hips as she urged him to move. He grabbed a hold of her shoulders and thrust into her savagely. 

“Yes,” she hissed. “Like that. More.”

Draco nodded, ignoring the bead of sweat running down his nose as he continued to thrust. Every thrust flattened Hermione against the wall, banging her head and winding her. But her breathy cries of “Harder! Faster!” assured Draco that the last thing she needed to worry about was her getting hurt. As the speed of his ramming increased Hermione’s cries became louder and louder, until eventually she flung her head back and screamed – actually screamed – her release.

It was the most glorious, amazing, wonderful sensation she had ever felt. Finally, after five years, she had an orgasm. And Fleur, once again, was right: It was every bit as intense and satisfying as she made it out to be. 

Hermione continued thrusting against Draco until he shouted out his own release, and then she stopped, and Draco’s hand fell away from her shoulder to land across her breasts, covered by her dress…

...and then suddenly another jolt of electricity flew straight to Hermione’s groin. Hermione jumped in shock, causing Draco, despite his obviously being knackered, to force his head up and look at her.

“What is it?” he asked, his fingers sliding mindlessly across her chest in a way that did nothing to help her concentration.

“That wasn’t enough,” Hermione said quietly.

Draco’s hand froze. “You… you want more?” he asked. “Are you serious?”

Hermione nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Draco managed a grin. “Trust me, Hermione,” he said, her first name unfamiliar on his tongue, “the last thing you need to feel at such a proposal is sorry. But, what do you say we move this somewhere more private?”

Hermione grinned back at him, all sheepishness forgotten. “Okay.”

~*~

They Apparated into a large bedroom, so lavishly decorated in emerald green and silver that Hermione had no doubt that Draco often slept there. But really, she didn’t care much for the furnishings right at that moment. As soon as the final cobwebs of Apparition had disappeared she pulled Draco to her for another searing kiss.

She could feel Draco’s hands working at her dress. They had been in such a hurry that they hadn’t bothered putting what clothes they’d taken off back on again. They had instead picked them up and Apparated with them clutched in their hands. So Hermione now threw away the knickers she’d been carrying and moved to unbutton Draco’s shirt, pleased that that was all she had to contend with. 

Eventually Draco found the zip of Hermione’s dress and pulled it, allowing the shimmery fabric to slide down her body. He helped her pull off his shirt and stood back, eyes wide at the sight before him.

She truly was a goddess, in every aesthetic sense of the word. Her now-naked breasts were large and deliciously plump and firm, ending in perfect circular nipples, light brown in colour. Her stomach was flat without being concave and gaunt, or too muscular. Her hips were beautifully well-rounded, extending to her long, curvy legs. At the centre of it all was her pussy, moist with desire and completely hairless. Not that he minded hair there, but he suspected that part of being Veela was not having hair grow down there. Intriguing.

Draco, too, was hardly hard on the eyes. He was tall, thin and kind of sinewy. A bit like Harry, Hermione realised. His skin was pale, pink in places, and a light dusting of fine blonde hair was sprinkled around his nipples, below his naval, and of course around his cock, which was thick without being ridiculously enormous. To glide over to him, sink down to her knees and take him in her mouth was the work of the moment. 

Draco nearly fell over at the feel of Hermione’s mouth against his sensitive skin. Merlin, even her _mouth_ was inhumanely sexy. How did that work? She took him all the way in, ignoring her gag reflex and running her lips up and down, up and down. She felt him grabbing her hair, pulling it for his life, which only served to excite her more. Before he could release she removed her mouth and ordered him to kneel down with her. 

When he was level with her he surprised her by making her turn around. She did, and gasped as she came face-to-face with a full-length mirror. Draco came from behind and wrapped his arms around her. Her nipples hardened as his skin grazed them.

“Look at how beautiful you are,” he whispered. Hermione already knew how beautiful she was, but she humoured him and looked. His arms slid away from her until one hand was holding each breast. He massaged them, using more force than he would with most other women, and Hermione’s head tilted back as her mouth opened up in a silent “oh”. 

“Touch yourself,” he whispered, removing one hand from her breast to guide her toward her centre. “Watch as you touch yourself. See how beautiful you are.”

Hermione hadn’t thought that she would be one for voyeurism, but when her thumb brushed lightly against her clit, her corresponding shiver of pleasure was one of the hottest things she’d ever seen. She stroked, more firmly, and watched with intrigue as her little jumps and jolts made her breasts bounce sexily against Draco’s hands. 

Draco wasn’t done with this position. Watching her watching herself was the biggest turn-on he could have envisaged. He removed his hands from her breasts, placing them on her hips. Before she could think to ask what he was doing he had taken aim and thrusted into her from behind. The surprise caused Hermione to topple over; a rare move for a Veela. Now she was on all-fours, her arse pressing against Draco’s pelvis, breasts swinging heavily below her.

“Merlin, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Move with me, Hermione. Watch as you fuck me. I want you to see yourself come.”

Hermione nodded, and raised her head to look in the mirror as Draco pushed violently against her. She rested her forearms on the ground and, the next time Draco pushed, thrust up to meet him. Soon they found their rhythm and pushed, hard and fast, against each other. Hermione could feel the starts of bruises on her knees and her hips where Draco gripped them, but she couldn’t care less. She watched their bodies move, her breasts swing, his face fix itself into a look of extreme concentration. Faster, faster they went, until Draco snuck one hand around Hermione’s front, found her clit and pressed it. Hermione groaned as her vaginal walls contracted and another breathtaking orgasm overcame her, right before Draco fell over the edge too. She forced herself to watch as sweat poured from her forehead and down her beautiful face. Her back flexing and her legs tightening. Draco swearing and gripping her as though afraid he might fall over. She saw it all, and it was amazing. Draco was more amazing than she had been prepared to hope for.

But still, it wasn’t enough. Draco, who had released her and fallen back into a kneeling position, raised his eyebrows as she stood.

“Come,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed.

“You really can go on for ages, can’t you Herm--!” Hermione cut him off by kissing him desperately. She let her long hair fall around them, surrounding his face and engulfing him in the heavy scent of her shampoo. She moved down, kissing his throat, his shoulder, his chest. Her hand drifted further, grabbing his flaccid prick and stroking it lightly.

“One more time,” Hermione murmured. Draco wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to his cock. “You can do it. I need one more.”

Draco wouldn’t have believed it possible. After all, weren’t multiple orgasms for girls? But soon enough his prick was standing to attention, aching for her wet folds again. He moved to switch their positions, the better to drive into her, but she pushed him back onto his back.

“No,” she said. “Let me. It’s my turn.”

He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t protest. Hermione swung one lovely leg over his torso and sat up, letting his cock brush against her drenched pussy. As he watched, she took it in her hand and slowly guided herself in. It didn’t take long for him to go all the way inside, and once he was in she tossed her head back, marvelling in the sensation of having a long thick cock inside her, filling her to the max. 

Draco considered asking her what she planned on doing next, but before he got a chance she was placing one hand on either side of him, raising her arse up, then coming back down with force. The friction was incredible, and Draco had to bite his lip and recite the British monarchs in order from William the Conqueror to stop himself from coming right then. Opening his eyes, he saw that Hermione had now thrown her head back and was continuing to slide in and out of him. He reached up and took a full breast in each hand, massaging them viciously as he had before. Hermione arched her back, pressing them further into his hands. He pulled and squeezed and tugged, delighting in the mewls of pleasure coming from her. 

After a moment Hermione reached in front of her, thrust her hand into her folds and started rubbing frantically at her clit with her open palm. Together they thrusted, kneaded, rubbed and pulled, until finally Hermione’s muscles contracted again and she screamed her release, every nerve in her body exploding with delight as her juices poured out of her. At the tightening of her muscles Draco came too, Hermione’s name finding its way out of his lips as he shot his seed, for the third time that evening, into her. They continued to move against each other, riding out the final waves of their respective climaxes, until Hermione collapsed onto him, finally sated. 

Neither spoke for several minutes as they caught their breath. When their heart rates had finally slowed it was Draco that spoke first.

“If somebody had told me ten years ago that you would be able to fuck like that, I would not have believed them in the slightest.”

Hermione let out a chuckle. “Likewise,” she agreed.

“So,” he said, shifting himself so he could look at her better. “What happens next, do you think?”

Hermione thought carefully for a moment before answering. “Next, I fall asleep, because this is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in. Then I suppose we spend the day together, and I see if you can exhibit this much stamina two nights in a row.”

Malfoy nodded. “Seems fair. Although I don’t suppose that at some point in the not-too-distant future we could, I don’t know, have lunch together or something?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Well, you’ll be dining with the pickiest person you’ll have ever come across, but if you’re all right with my incessant complaining, it’s a date.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Draco assured her. “As long as you’re not opposed to having sex in restaurant bathrooms.”

Hermione would have hit him with a pillow, but she was too exhausted. _After all_ , she reasoned, _I’ll have the rest of my life to do that._


End file.
